


from porcelain, to ivory, to steel

by ddeiSmile



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Sansa centered, but i also love jonsa, this is just my way of giving her some justice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:40:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26058130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ddeiSmile/pseuds/ddeiSmile
Summary: "Jon, look at me."He didn't, not immediately. His hands curled into fists, grimacing slightly, but then his eyes fell. She knew by heart what he was going to find―the bite marks, the cuts around her breasts, arms, and belly, the skin deformed by fire in her hips, her thighs, her very core.“I have the body of a woman, but the scars of a man. I will not be wed to some lord so he can cast me aside in my own home, Jon. Not again.”
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 30
Kudos: 164





	1. Ten.

_i._  
Jon willed himself not to look down where her naked body shivered slightly. She knew he was trying to search in her eyes the little Sansa who wished for nothing more than to be in a song, to fall in love, to be the rose of Winterfell, and positively not to lose her clothing in front of her bastard brother. He was not going to find her. There were only little pieces left of that girl and a much greater part of what she once saw in Cersei: the rage of a woman who is tired of being undermined.

"Sansa--"

"Jon, look at me."

He didn't, not immediately. His hands curled into fists, grimacing slightly, but then his eyes fell. She knew by heart what he was going to find―the bite marks, the cuts around her breasts, arms, and belly, the skin deformed by fire in her hips, her thighs, her very core.

“I have the body of a woman, but the scars of a man. I will not be wed to some lord so he can cast me aside in my own home, Jon. Not again.”

_ii._  
Sansa remembers the soreness in her knees as she begged Joffrey to have mercy and pardon her father. Cercei's sweet and concerned voice, asking if she had some business for the king and the council, had given her the courage to do so. Hope fueled her heart beatings when Joffrey silenced maestre Pycelle because he wanted to hear what she had to say.

_Oh, how stupid she had been._

A stupid little girl with her stupid dreams.

When her father was sentenced to die, Sansa had screamed and wailed, desperately trying to end the nightmare that was unfolding beneath her feet. The lone wolf was powerless under the gaze of the lions. She found herself terribly alone, scared, and broken.

As the sword was lifted into the air, her throat constricted with anguish and her eyes shut tightly, but she never ceased to beg them to stop. Even when night came, with the moon shining inside a room that was not her own, so far away from anyone whom she could trust, she did not stop begging. Sansa pleaded to the gods, the old and the new ones, to please, please, turn back time and take her pain away.

They did not listen to her ―and them hardly ever would―, for when the morning came, she had still been alive while her father had not.

_iii._  
How long do I have to look, she had questioned Joffrey. He responded by making his guard slap both her cheeks with such a force that it left her jaw aching throughout the day. Still, she hadn't shed a tear, not in front of him. He was undeserving of the satisfaction it would have surely given him, much less when her father's head rotted as one of his trophies―he had taken enough of her already.

Sansa wanted him dead, a feeling that had been completely foreign in her thirteenth years of life until then. She had walked the steps in his direction, thinking of nothing else but the need to rid this world of him. It startled her how easy it became to loathe him and everything he was, including his mother, and this filthy southern land.

If it had not been for Ser Clegane, who prevented her from following her desires, she would have succeeded. His actions not only had saved her life but also a part of her innocence.

On that day, Sansa understood that she had to learn to lie in order to survive because she was not brave enough to kill herself or another human being. Not yet, at least.

_iv._  
The weakness that overcame her when Joffrey punished her for Robb’s rebellion, had pained her even more than Ser Meryn's blow to her stomach or the ardor of the cut on the back of her legs that followed. She had despised finding herself once again begging in her knees to such a wicked creature for a life she wasn't even sure she truly wanted.

As they had torn apart her dress, humiliating her, she thought that she should have done it, she should have killed herself and not let him, and those vultures from the court, to see her and treat her like this.

Unfortunately, it has always been a human instinct to do quite the contrary―to yearn for survival, and Sansa was no different.

Tyrion Lannister's gallantries meant nothing to her, even if he had been the only person to show her some sympathy since her father's death. That is, after Shae, of course. Despite this, his words had given her some kind of comfort, because she knew now that to win them in their own game, she only needed to survive. She was starting to learn how.

_v._  
She remembers standing by the shore at Myrcella Baratheon's departure to Dorne. She had felt sympathy, for she knew what it meant to be kept away from her home and her kin. Still, the knowledge that Cersei Lannister's cold heart had broken into a thousand pieces, thrilled her far more than what she cared to admit. Of course, the queen expressions hadn't betrayed anything, her face always a façade of pride and mighty, but her eyes had glistened with sorrow and longing. Sansa had been happy for Cersei’s pain in the same amount that she wished for Catelyn Stark's warm embrace.

The feeling hadn’t last, replaced by the sheer terror she felt when she found herself running away from the people of King's Landing and its starving rage. It was the result of Joffrey’s war and stupidity.

The blow to her cheek that the scoundrel gave her hadn’t hurt enough because all she had feared was the disgrace it would come to her if he got between her legs. They had laughed, holding each of her ankles as one of them stripped, readying himself to rape her. They didn’t, not physically, The Hound saved her from that, but they had done something to her soul that she thought it would never heal.

It was the same feeling that washed over her as the sun rays crept into her nightmares and woke her up to the knowledge that she was now able to bear Joffrey’s children. Sansa knew he was worse than those men.

Only then did she understood what it meant being a woman in a land where cruel men could decide over her body. She never forgot what Cersei told her that same night: the more people you love, the weaker you are. She knew now there were no fairytales in real life.

_vi._  
Sansa had been brave when The Hound came to her bedroom the night Stannis Baratheon raged war outside the castle. She had been brave when she tried to strip in front of Tyrion Lannister after they made her marry him, and she had survived the pain caused by her brother and her mother's death soon after. She had been brave too when she ran away as Joffrey choked with poison at his own wedding. All those moments had given her a false sense of power, so she lied about her aunt Lysa's death, feeling tired of being threatened by others, and as she stood within the walls of Winterfell and walked the path to the Godswood, all dressed in white, Sansa thought she had the right cards to play.

She was, after all, the last Stark alive and very far away from Cersei's grasps.

_vii._  
Her time with Joffrey had not been for anything and one would have to be blind not to see the truth behind that smile and the shine in those eyes. That Ramsay Bolton was a wicked man, or at least that some part of him was awfully and terribly sinister, was an understatement. But she had been willing to have him in her bed chambers until she gave him a son if only it meant to regain Winterfell and be home again.

She had even dared to hope that Ramsay would be good to her, maybe they would grow fond of each other, learn to respect each other, and eventually, he would've given her the place she was born to take as the Lady of Winterfell.

Without so much as a hesitation, she had ignored the things Ramsay had done to Theon. They should have been enough to realize that he was never going to be a good husband, but she had wanted to make him suffer for what he had done to her brothers. She should’ve known to fear a man capable of destroying another one like Ramsay had done to Theon.

Suffering, what a conspicuous word. She had thought she had suffered at King's Landing, always so full of terror because of Joffrey and Cersei. The nightmares had drawn her almost to insanity, watching every night her father's eyes while she begged him to lie, to please beg for mercy and her brother's head replaced with his wolf's, and her mother's body, white as a sheet, at the bottom of a river. But she doubted it could be compared to Ramsay fucking her raw.

He would hit her when she grew tired of screaming in pain, commanding her to keep going as it was music to his ears. He would undress her completely and burn her when she tried to struggle, leaving her limp as he pushed different objects inside of her, always careful, claiming he was eager to have her full of his children.

He hurts me every night, she had told Theon, but that did not even cover what he did to her. He had hit her, beat her, spit on her, cut her, burned her, bitten her, raped her over and over, with his own body and other things too, enjoying her suffering and pleads. He had tortured her and then left to enjoy his sleep, satisfied with himself night after night.

In the end, despite the fear he must have felt, the boy her father had raised was the one to save her. Sansa would always remember the feel of Theon's hand holding hers.

_viii._  
She had replied to lady Lyanna Mormont that she did what she had to do to survive but that she never stopped being a Stark. No one had the right to judge her and neither did they could take away what was hers―her name and the ones that came before her.

In a way, despite every part she had lost, Sansa knew she had never stopped being herself: a lady of Winterfell, fair, feminine, always careful with her attire and her hair, just like her mother taught her, but now she was also strong in mind and soul. She was as strong as any man and even more.

If Ramsay wins, I'm not going back there alive, she had told Jon and she had known this time she would be true to her own words. She saw fear in his eyes, pity, _I'll protect you, I promise_. He knew nothing. _No one can protect me, no one can protect anyone_.

Jon hadn't listened, so she did what she had to do. She had decided she was going to save him and bring them both back to Winterfell, even if it meant having a snake in her home.

As she had walked away, listening to Ramsay's hounds eating him alive, she thought about how different it felt.

She had turned from porcelain to ivory, to steel.

_ix._  
The Queen of Dragons was summoning him and they both knew why: the war in the South was to come. Even if he didn't want to leave, there was nothing he could do for his honor was always first. She suspected his love for the queen herself had something to do as well.

In the rush of a moment, Jon had suggested for her to take a husband and rule the North. Bran was not Bran anymore, he had other things in his mind, and Arya was a free soul, she was never going to do what it was expected of her, preferring much to fight her way through life.

The King in the North must always be in the North, he had said, as if that was reason enough for her to relent. She knew those words came from the lords of the North who wanted a King and Jon was not enough anymore, he had made a mistake by bending the knee to Daenerys. Still, she knew he had only considered the proposal so that she could be safe by a man's side. A good man he would deem worthy before leaving. She wishes he hadn't promised to protect her.

There are no heroes in real life. Here, the monsters always win. She hoped Jon's fear for her didn't turn him into one.

“I have the body of a woman, but the scars of a man. I will not be wed to some lord so he can cast me aside in my own home, Jon. Not again.”

When he finished regarding her, he walked the distance between them. Her tremors had increased, but she didn't know if it was due to the cold in the room or because of her rage. He picked up the cloak that pooled around her feet and covered her naked body with it, tenderly kissing her forehead. He was trembling too, but she doubted his reasons. She couldn't read him at the moment, not with her mind so adrift.

His arms surrounded her as carefully as he could, waiting for her to push him away. When she didn't, he held her with a strength that she only remembered present in the embrace of her father. She wanted to cry, but there were no more tears left in her.

“You won’t. Never again. I will protect you, Sansa.”

She wanted to believe in him. He had almost perished trying to keep them all safe from the While Walkers. No one can protect anyone.

She melted against him slowly, needing to believe in him if just for those seconds. She smelled the leather of his clothing, felt his calloused fingers against her left cheek, his beard tickled her right as she nuzzled against him. She wished life had been different, that she had been different.

Jon deserved better and so did she.

_x._  
Maybe in another life, she would have turned her face to touch his lips with her own. They had been brothers once, but time had changed them beyond repair and he had become her grates strength. So her foolish heart had hoped once more.

Maybe she would've let her heart beat as fast as it was doing now, relishing in the touch of a man who truly cared about her. Maybe, in that other life, she would have been lucky enough to be wed to him, a man who had seen how intelligent she was, who tried to listen to her ―though sometimes unsuccessfully―, who respected her and cherished her.

But not in this life. She was never going to be that stupid little girl who hoped ever again.

He walked away, leaving her to dress again, to be what she had to be: the Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North.


	2. Six.

_i._  
Her eyes dart from her hands to the window, and the murky sky of Winterfell greets her gloomily. One of her elbows rests on the wooden table while her back crouches slightly against the support of her chair. If her mother had seen her at that moment, Sansa wouldn't have survived the lecture. But she was tired of being a proper lady. Properness had done nothing for her. And yet, listening to her mother's voice in the back of her head, admonishing her on how to be a proper lady —high chin, back perfectly straight, a calm demeanor—, usually gave her soul a peace that, right now, she needed it the most.

"My lady--," Brienne announces herself before knocking at her door, or at least she tries. Arya ignores her knightly ways and walks right past her, opening it without a care.

Sansa doesn’t mind, she has come to accept the way her sister storms into every room, a deadly silence and confident gesture following her everywhere. Sometimes she even finds herself admiring it.

"It's all right,” she says to Brienne, gesturing with her hand so she can stop her stiff stand by the threshold. “Please, come in, lady Brienne."

The tall woman doubts for a second. She was not expecting for her presence to be required when Sansa requested her to fetch her sister, but she needs both their counsel―the two women most clever, just and brave she has ever known. Two seconds are gone before she walks in and closes the door behind her. Sansa looks to the window once again, feeling Arya’s eyes over her body, studying how well she is concealing her disquiet. She must suspect what she’s about to say. The fact that she doesn't voice it out first, gives her some kind of reassurance. Still, the words that follow don't come out any easier.

"... I want to take the North," she pauses, letting her words settle in. "Perhaps even become queen and warden of the North." Her lips part and she takes a shaky breath, readying herself to let her sister pry all her secrets through her eyes as she rests them on hers again. Letting her see how true her next few words are. "But I won't do it if you disagree with me. We must look after each other and I don't want to start a war between us."

"But you will against Jon?"

The question takes the air from her lungs, she feared that statement more than anything. It hurts listening to it. Brienne changes her weight from one leg to the other.

"I will speak to Bran first," she breathes. "Our brother should be Lord of Winterfell and the rightful King." She lefts unsaid what they both know he thinks about that. Still, she will ask. "Then, I will tell Jon and I hope we can reach some kind of peaceful end."

When silence is the only thing filling the room, Brienne steps forward. “Are you sure about this, my lady?”

Sansa nods without hesitation.

“I love Jon,” she looks at Arya, “he is my brother." She pauses again, her voice returning with less strength. "I respect his choice about giving up the North to Daenerys, but I don't share it and I won't accept it. I know he did it because he truly believes in her. But we cannot wage war against the South, not right now. The North needs a King of its own, one that will not be a part of this battle between Cersei and Daenerys--whose name should be Stark. If it is for Bran, if it is for you,” Arya frowns at her, “I will still fight with everything I have.”

Brienne straightens, some kind of pride making her face shine. As she places her right hand over her sword, she says "I will support you in every way, my lady. Always."

Sansa smiles slightly to the other woman. Then, she looks at her sister, waiting for her response.

Arya moves around the room until she lets herself rest over a chair, right next to the fire. Her shoulders shrug as she says, “we have to look after each other, right?”

Her body shudders and relief washes all over her. In a second, her smile grows wider and it is almost embarrassing, but she does not restrain herself.

“Aye, always.”

For a long time, she feared this was the wrong thing to do. That she was being selfish as she had been all those years before.

She asked Jon's forgiveness for how awful she had been to him—to everyone. Always believing she was above them because of her lady-like manners and the possibilities her name gave her for marriage. Trapped in King’s Landing, she thought repeatedly of those times and how maybe all the things that were happening to her, were a lesson from the gods to cure her of her arrogance. She didn’t want to be like that anymore, but sometimes she feared she didn’t know how to avoid it.

Brienne excuses herself, letting them speak further alone. As sisters. Sansa walks to the window, entertaining herself in finding patches of snow on the ground. Winter came and went away, but peace did not bless them yet.

“Are you sure about this?”

Her stare falls over her sister. She doesn't return the gesture, her dark brown eyes fixed upon the fire that casts shadows to her face.

“Arya, I--”

“I know there are things you're not telling me.” Sansa frowns. “Things that go beyond what this… Dragon Queen means to the North. Things that have to do with Jon and--”

“Stop,” her voice cuts like ice.

She knows all too well what Arya is talking about. That’s something she doesn’t want to acknowledge. Not now, not ever. There are far more important things in her mind

“I better go and talk to Bran now.”

She walks the distance to the door, every step taken as her mother tells her in the memories that she plays in her mind.

Arya's voice sends the dead to rest. “You don’t have to be a martyr, you know? You have a duty to yourself too.”

Sansa looks at her sister again, half her body already outside the room. She decides to be brave and speak what wanted to say before. "Thank you for believing in me."

_ii._  
The North was not what it had been when her father walked through the halls of Winterfell. Now, its vast lands were filled with blood, dead bodies, and sorrow.

Jon had stood in front of them when the Great War came to an end and told them that he had made an oath to Daenerys to fight for her against the South. He said he was not going to ask the same from them, but the lords were lost. Many of them didn't have a home to return to after the Wights had come and the wind still carried the wailings of the mothers who mourned their sons. They needed guidance and the only one who could provide it was their King. So they kept silent and agreed with tired aye's.

There were those who wanted only the gold they believed it would come after the battle against the Lannisters. A few aimed for something Sansa knew was almost impossible: a northerner as the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Those who truly believed in him and followed his commands because of the honor he had shown when times of need had befallen, were the most eager to stay.

Those feelings were causing a silent turmoil that kept them from what was truly important: provide shelter and food for those who had survived and help the families who lost everything they had.

She knew that only a true leader would be their salvation. Jon was good at it, but he was far too good to be the king they needed. He was far too in love to be it. She was not going to commit the same mistakes, her duty laid there and that is why she was standing there. She knocks on Bran’s door and walks in as he tells her to do so.

His room is dark, the fire in the hearth being the only source of light. His blank face stares at it until she comes closer and sits in his bed. Her brother's expression betrays nothing, but after so many times of him telling her that she is lying to herself when she thinks something like the old Bran has sparked, she has now come to terms with his new way of being. Instead, she has started to try and, at least, get to know this new self.

So, after he has been out there all day, his eyes rolled back, they have long talks in her solar or the Godswood. She now understands a little more what he is, and learned to trust in him like nobody else.

“You know already my answer,” he says as she opens her mouth.

Sansa pushes away the irritation it causes her not to be able to convince him. “--I still need to hear it.”

“I am the Three-Eyed Raven, Sansa. I am not a lord, nor will I ever be.”

She lets go of a breath, her eyebrows worrying for the next words she says. “Do you think I should stop?” she bites her lip, suspecting what will be his answer. “Is it the right thing to do?”

He looks at the fire again. “I cannot interfere.”

“When I killed Lord Baelish, I did it because you helped me. You supported me." Her voice raises slightly. "You also told Jon who he was, you told him he was the heir to the iron throne.”

“Yes. It was necessary justice. Things must have a balance. The second was something that needed to happen and there was nobody else left alive who knew the truth. He is to be the rightful King and he needed to know.”

“He has bent the knee,” she doesn’t intend to sound so sour, but the words are out there before she can stop them. He follows her with his eyes and this time she is the one who avoids him. “He doesn’t want to be king.”

“It will happen." Bran pauses, but not long enough for her to suspect what he says next, “and you will be Queen too.”

Sansa lifts her face, her heart pounding in her chest. She knows this is as much as she will get out of him, so she stands and leans in his direction, leaving a kiss on his forehead.

“Thank you.”

She starts to walk away when he calls her name once again. “Sansa--. You will do right, you are a good person.”

She smiles at him, something small, barely there. Even the phrase is meant to make her feel good, even if it wakes something warm inside of her, Sansa can’t help but worry.

And then she sees it, the spark of the old Bran—his little brother trying to console her. She leaves the room before he can correct her. She wants to believe that it is her Bran, her little brother, who is trying to be there for her.

_iii._  
His room is warm, she notices with relief. The nights were still as cold as they had been when winter was here, and she had stood outside way too long, trying to calm her nerves. She didn't succeed with the latter, but the change in temperature is welcoming.

The oak feels heavy as she presses her palm against it to close it behind her. Deep inside, she suspects it is the memory of the previous night, and what she did in this same room, in front of the same man, what makes her weak.

They don't even try to find each other's faces. He pretends he is busy, moving letters and other things around his table unnecessarily. It doesn't help her nervousness and she reprimands herself for it all. Sansa should've known this would happen, for the gods, she surely thought about it, but she had hoped to be stronger than this. She had promised herself not to let a man affect her and Jon had done enough of that. She was not going to let him keep doing this to her.

She folds her hands in front of her skirts, willing herself to keep her whole body in the same position—as stoic as she learned to be from Cersei Lannister: always unaffected, but ready to attack.

“Will you leave soon?” her voice sounds steady and she thanks the gods for that.

“Aye,” he says too fast, too soon. “When the sun comes out again I shall part.”

“Jon,” she steps in his direction but stops when Ghost comes closer to her, silently asking her attention. She indulges, it helps her a little bit. “I am begging you now, Jon. Do not make us participate in Daenerys’s war.”

She is grateful she has an excuse to look down as she rubs Ghost’s ears as she feels him finally looking at her. She has to fight the heat from climbing up to her cheeks.

“Sansa, I gave my word to her.”

That’s what he always says. The sound of it annoys her so much by this point that she can’t help but be harsh when she gives him an answer. “You gave your word to the North first. You should not have bent the knee.”

"Sansa, if this is about the marriage, I swear to you I won't say anything like that again. I--"

"It's not," she raises her voice as well as her chin and he adopts a defensive position. "The North doesn't need another war.”

"I gave them a choice. They decided," he says through gritted teeth.

She wants to groan, but that would be unladylike. Instead, she gestures to the door as she says, "because they are fools!" And so was him. "They want things you cannot give them and you want things that the North doesn’t need. Can you be more blind?”

“What are those things that they want and that I want?" His voice is as strong as hers, "do you know them for sure?”

He is challenging her. Doubting her. It only pisses her off furthermore.

“Yes, Jon, I do! And the fact that you don’t want to listen to me doesn’t mean I will stop knowing them.”

“Then tell me,” he shortens the distance between the, seeming desperate. “Say what you have to say instead of not going to the lord's council and--”

She might've felt sorry for him in other circumstances, but she can’t think straight anymore. She feels so mad at him.

“Tell her you won’t support her. Tell her you will be left out of this war.”

“That I cannot--”

“No, of course not, because you are just thinking of yourself and your needs as a man!”

He’s surprised. Sansa knows her face must show a similar expression. That's not what she wanted to say, not when deep inside she doesn't like the idea of it, but she doesn’t go back on her words, her pride too great for her at this point. He has seen her at her most vulnerable too many times. This will not be one of those.

She sees the slow change in his expression, his eyebrows furrowing and his eyes glinting with rage. His station transforms too, she can see the king in him unravel carefully. Targaryen blood.

No, this is not how she wanted things to end. She had told Arya she wanted a peaceful treat. But, Jon is Jon, and as much as a good man he is, he is also stubborn and irritatingly honorable. She wanted him to be more than that, to be smarter than Robb and father.

“Is that what you think I’m doing? Dragging the North to war because I want Daenerys as a woman?”

She is sure of it, but she also knows he just likes to lie to himself. He is too innocent of the male inadequacies.

“If that is your reason or if it is for your honor, I don’t care. I want you to stop this madness, that’s all.”

She's just as much of a liar as well. She won't admit to that either.

“I won’t, Sansa," he turns his back to her, dismissing her. "I am the King and I have made my decision.”

She had expected as much, but seeing it and hearing those words, wounded her even more than what she thought it would.

"For some reason, you truly believe that each one of my words or actions is meant like a plot against you. To undermine you or to make you feel stupid because if I know more than you, then I am just--. Believe it or not, I care about you and all this time I have been trying--" she gasps, desperate to contain her tears. "I have--I've been trying so hard to keep you safe, to keep us alive and safe in our home, Jon."

She moans his name and has to fist her hands to keep herself together. Her heartbreak, her desperation, her pain—it doesn’t stop her words. She can't stop now.

“I am Sansa Stark, the daughter of Ned Stark," she can’t hear herself above the thundering rhythm of her heart but she sees his expression as he finally turns to face her once again. "I will declare myself as Queen in the North. I will speak to the lords so they can pledge their allegiance, make a new oath if they wish to and I hope, my lord, that you will respect their decision as you have claimed that you do.”

There’s no rage left in his eyes, only pain and fear. She feels the same, but that is not unexpected, she loves him more than what she will ever dare to admit and the knowledge that this might tear them apart is heavy over her shoulders.

“When you leave Winterfell--when you leave your kin, as you have done so many times before and as we both know you will again--I shall stay here and serve as the King in the North should have. Good night, Jon.”

She doesn't wait for his answer. She walks steadily, but faster than ever before, trying to get as far away from him as she can.

Her mother talks to her in the back of her head, explaining why a lady should never run in her own house, but once again she can’t hear, she doesn't want to. As soon as she closes the door of her bed chambers, her hands fly to open her dress, tossing with the fabrics that overlap one another, as if that could help her to breathe better. When the fabrics don't fall fast enough, she reaches for something to cut it open. Sansa falls to the floor with ragged sobs and trembling limbs.

Sansa cries silent whimpers because she has hurt him, even after he saved her. She cries because she has betrayed him, even after all she struggled to keep him as her King. She cries because she never wanted to become what she is now—a reminiscent of her worst nightmare. Sansa cries because she loves him.

_iv._  
Sansa knows each person in this room: their needs and their wishes, their weakness, and the way to please them. That had been her job—to fulfill Jon’s absence. She has been in this position a thousand times. She has talked to them, listened to them, worked with them, but this time is different and her heart seems adamant to calm down. Despite her anxiety, her face remains the same, a stoic façade that transmits nothing more but might and certainty. She has come a long way, has learned from the best players of the game, and knows she will win.

She repeats it in her head until she believes it.

When the room is filled to the brim with each of the bannermen who are still alive after the Great War, she stands, her eyes traveling around the room. Bran is by her right side and Arya stands by the wall on her left. She feels better with them here—her kin. The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. They give her the strength she needs to raise her voice.

"My lords, I have called you today to ask for your support. My cousin, Jon Targaryen, bent the knee to a Southern queen to serve her as she fights in a war that does not concern us. I cannot accept that--not when the North is in great need. I beg you to support me, as the true born daughter of Ned Stark and to proclaim me as your Queen."

She thought about her words over and over again, tossing around in her bed, wondering if there was another way to do this. She had hoped Jon would come to her, to accept what she asked of him, to avoid all this madness—he hadn’t. She is glad that he isn't here to listen to what she is saying. Her eyes fall upon Arya for a brief second, her sister is inscrutable, but that's better than her rage and hurt, so she goes on.

"As my cousin has chosen to leave even after I told him of my decision, you can assume he will stay loyal to Daenerys Targaryen,” another pause. She lets that information sink. “Whatever you decide it will be respected and I shall come to terms with it. Those who want to pledge to Jon can leave Winterfell peacefully, I want nothing more but peace, as I have asked my cousin and his queen, and that's all I ask of you."

The faces in the room show a mixture of emotions that goes from surprise to wariness. The wildlings that now live in Winterfell keep quiet, their expression full of rage. Brienne has stepped in front of her, aligning her body so she can cover for Arya as well, but Sansa is confident that even if they see her as a traitor, the lords will protect her.

The first one to stand, as she did when they proclaimed Jon Snow as their King, is Lyanna Mormont. She has turned into a beautiful lady, seemingly more ferocious than before as her fourteen name day approaches.

"When you and your brother came to my house, you called upon my letter to Stannis Baratheon: Bear Island knows no king, but the King in the North, whose name is Stark. House Mormont has always served to your family. That will not change today either,” her eyes then move to the rest of the men who are watching her. “And I shall know how capable a woman is to uphold a house. You have proven yourself too and I do not doubt that you will be a fair Queen.”

Her little nose raises "I know no Queen but the Queen in the North."

She feels like embracing her. Instead, she simply thanks her with earnest.

The other man in the room looks at each other, trying to find some advice within them. It takes them more time to accept this than what it took them when Jon was by her side, but eventually, someone roars from the back of the room the words that lady Mormont just said. They all follow soon enough.

_Queen in the North!, Queen in the North!_

Rather than fire, her chest stirs up with the cold breeze of the winter, and her throat contracts itself like a wolf who is about to howl to the moon.

She is Sansa Stark of Winterfell, Warden and Queen of the North.

_v._  
The meeting ends with Sansa telling them that she has prepared a letter for Daenerys Targaryen where she explains why her bannermen won't be joining her Dothraki and Unsullied army. She reads its content to them out loud and when they all agree upon her words, she seals it, promising that when the reply comes, she will make sure to send a replica to each one of them. In the meantime, though, she asks them to return to their lands and carry their duties. To help her bring the North back to all of its glory.

She hopes that's all she will need of them.

Sansa departs to her solar, requesting Brienne to see to their guest's needs as they prepared to leave Winterfell. Arya flees with Bran to the Godswood, leaving her to her own thoughts. Standing alone as she has so many times before, lord Baelish husky words of fake proudness and encouragement come to her mind. He was not here anymore though, and as the letter to Daenerys stares back at her, she almost feels bitter about it.

Not much time goes by until she hears the distinct steps of Jamie Lannister approaching her door. Perhaps it is because of his armor or because he doesn't have the same rhythm to his feet that any northerner would. In any case, she knows it's him before he announces himself.

"I've heard you have taken your cousin's throne, lady Sansa."

He certainly was charming. Blond hair, sharp jaw, tall and strong. He also had done plenty of terrible things. She guessed that loving Cersei was not one of them. Still, he had left her before the Great War begun. He fought alongside Jon when the time came and even saved her and Brienne's life during a time of crisis. His proven loyalty and Brienne's faith in him had convinced her to let him stay in Winterfell.

"It seems word travels fast, Ser Jaime."

She had confessed to Arya once that one of the main reasons why she let him stay had something to do with the fact that Cersei must have known whom his brother and former lover would now give his life for.

“I am glad for you,” he says and it sounds sincere.

Sansa pauses the writing she had been doing. She searches in his eyes if the feeling is real, but he has the demeanor of a Lannister. Always concealing their feelings.

“Thank you,” she says, nonetheless. Her right hand then reaches for the letter by her side. “Please, make sure this is sent to Dragonstone. It is addressed for Daenerys Targaryen.”

For a brief second, he tilts one of his elegant eyebrows. Surprised or impressed, she doesn't know. The expression is gone as fast as it came and he leaves the room without a word. Sansa decides not to think much about it. The time for her seeking everybody's approval was long gone. Right now there were far too many things that needed her whole attention. The wildings situation being one of them.

Jon was the only reason the lords had tolerated them, so she has to be careful and thoughtful when dealing with both sides' needs. Now that they had built a life on this side of the Wall, they were her responsibility too, and she could not have them going around in their own free will, with their own free rules as Jon had, nor would she be able to —or wanted to— change their customs.

She wasn't wearing a crown yet, but it already feels heavy on her head.

_vi._  
The news must have reached every corner of Winterfell by now. She can tell by the way people try their curtsies a little bit harder. It is not a surprise, but it still makes her skin prickle a bit. Soon, as each lord finds its way to their own home, it will be all around the North.

She has been wondering when will Jon find out that all the bannermen have proclaimed her their rightful Queen. She wonders what will it make him feel.  
The look of pain he gave her the night before still haunted her. Remembering it took the air from her lungs.

She knocks slowly on the door. Muffled sounds come from inside the room and she realizes she is scared. That is until Samwell opens it and his kind and nervous smile greet her. Gilly stands from her seat over the bed, their son oblivious as he plays by her feet.

There's a sad smile in her lips that Sansa returns with a similar expression.

Gilly and she became friends rather easily. Both had been trapped in Winterfell as the war was held meters away, time passing agonizingly slowly as they waited for news of those whom they loved and what it could mean if they perished in the front.

Sansa had even taught Gilly the art of embroidery, trying to calm the nerves with busy hands, and she had been an amazing student, a good listener, and an even better shoulder when she found herself crying, overwhelmed by the spur of victory and the people lost.

“Lady Sansa,” Sam says, then his smile falters. “I mean, that is…, Queen--”

"You are packing," she says instead, looking at the room almost empty by now.

"Jon is--. I..."

“Sam,” she interrupts him again. Her lips feel dry. "I understand, he is your friend and I did not expect anything else from you. I'm glad he has you," her voice is firm, her expression revealing her true feelings as she reaches for his hand and squeezes it gently. "I suppose you will follow him to the South."

"We don't know yet, your grace."

She inclines her head, trying to ignore the weird sensation it gives her listening to the way he has called her.

"You both can stay as long as you need to. Jon is not my enemy, not unless he decides otherwise," her voice becomes smaller by the end of it. Her eyes fall to Gilly. "And even then you are my friends too and you are welcome in Winterfell, no matter what."

Sam closes his mouth after the surprise her words cause in him. Then his shy smile shows again.

"Thank you."

She returns the small gesture. "Wait until Jon tells you what to do, you cannot drag little Sam around."

Gilly walks to where she stands and wraps her in a warm embrace. Sansa wonders if this is something only mothers can do, to show such tenderness, making the other feel truly cherished. She remembers the way she felt when Jon held her the day she reached him at Castle Black and she can’t help but hide against Gilly’s shoulder. She has to command herself not to cry.

"Thank you, Sansa," Gilly says, brushing her hair slightly.

The touch is what breaks her.

Her body convulses with each sob and she thinks of her mother and the way she used to brush her hair; of her father, and how he had wanted her to marry a gentle and brave man; of Robb, and his sweet smile; of Rickon and his wild curls; of Jon, and how much he had felt like home.

Gilly doesn’t let go until she has calmed down. Sam invites her to stay for a tea that he has wanted to try for far too long. In the end, it soothes her nerves and as she leaves to take a nap, eyes heavy with tiredness, Sansa shares a hug with both of them, promising to see them when dinner is served.

They leave Winterfell three days later. Jon's letter addressed to the Queen in the North arrives that same evening.


	3. Ten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was so hard to write a happy ending, but here it is.  
> I leave it open even though I wanted to write some smut, but Sansa's trauma needs a lot more and I knew I wasn't going to write it.  
> Also, I want to share what inspired me with you. Just a little reminder of how perfect jonsa is   
> [HERE](https://ddeismile.tumblr.com/post/628817275358789632), [HERE](https://ddeismile.tumblr.com/post/628431946573332480/remussjlupins-jonsa-hugs-are-the-best-hugs), [HERE](https://ddeismile.tumblr.com/post/628370879737397248) and [HERE](https://youtu.be/8zjE-0k3FRc)  
>  In other words, she was so open with him and, really, s6!Jon was such a fool for here. Please, watch the video, it's just... art.  
>  Also, know that I love Cersei.

_ i. _

Sansa's letter never reaches Daenerys. When Jon left Winterfell, it wasn't to return to Dragonstone, but rather to go South, where the Targaryen queen was already going mad with grieve. She lost two of her most trusted companions, and in her rage, she decided that half of King's Landing would pay the price. She burnt them all.

Cersei expected as much, which is why she ended up killing her anyway. What she did not expect was to find her end soon after by Tyrion Lannister's knife.

It doesn't take long for the news to reach Sansa, but she already knew, because Bran had seen it even before it happened. The dead bodies and Jon's pain.

That same afternoon, she walks the steps towards the Godswood to pray.

To  _ truly  _ pray for the life of Jon Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Six Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.

_ ii. _

Sansa loved her father with all her heart. It was the type of love that came from  _ admiration _ ―the approval, respect, and appreciation of a man's ways. Ned Stark had waged war to save his sister and married the betrothed of his perished brother. He fought and did what he had to because he was an honorable man. The kind of man who made Catelyn Stark a happy woman, the sort of man who, despite his cold demeanor, gave sweet smiles to his children and always listened before granting a sentence.

And maybe that was the reason why she had been such a well-behaved child. A lady, through and through. She had always wanted to inspire Ned Stark to love her and protect her as he had done with all the other women in his life―she had desperately wanted to be his pride and joy. But, her father only ever had eyes for Arya. So she kept to her fairy-tales and resented the wildness and carefree behavior of her sister. Why did Arya receive all the attention if Sansa tried so exhaustingly to be perfect? Why was the knight of her dreams unbothered by her existence?

Why didn't he care.

When her father died, Sansa blamed herself for it. She wished for death, but like so many other things, it never came true. Instead, she found him in her dreams every night,  _ finally _ resting his wise eyes over her little frame, but within that look, there's always only shame and hurt. Even now, those nightmares frightened her more than the memories of Ramsay's torture.

Then, she found Jon.

Jon, who was so  _ painfully  _ alike her father.

He told her there was nothing to forgive about all the awful things she did when they were kids. When she thought she had to see him as the only reproachable thing her father ever did. His answer made her heart flutter, perhaps because, in front of the fire, the corner of his eyes crinkled just like her father's, and he was brave, gentle, and strong, and she thought that if she ever dared to care for another man―if she ever dared to admit that she was in love with another man just like her mother had been of her father―it had to be Jon.

_ The bastard Ned Stark raised with no differentiation and who knew and cared for his noble ways. _

So she tried to save him, desperate to keep him alive. To keep him by her side. But Jon never truly did forgive her. He resented everything she did or said. It was so hard to be with him.  _ To be without him _ . They were constantly at odds.

So, eventually, Jon cast her aside too. Bent the knee and fell in love with a Targaryen queen.

When did it happen? When did the need for the love of her father make her think that Jon could fill that void with his shy smiles and his promises of protecting her? How, after everything she had gone through with Ramsay and Baelish, could she dream of Jon holding her, letting her heart hope? Why would she be such a fool as to want to believe in him?

_ When did she turn out to be so wicked, needing the love of her (cousin) half-brother? _

_ iii. _

There are many things I wish I could have said to you before I left. Sadly, I have never been good with words.

Tyrion says I must do this, not because I am a Targaryen, but because we all owe it to them. To the people of King's Landing who lost everything.

I know you saw it in her, but I didn't. We needed her and I was hoping there was someone better than the woman who killed Robb, and your lord father, and your lady mother. I was wrong, you were right.

I don't think I can forgive Dany, as much as I'm sure you can't forgive me.

I'm sorry, Sansa.

I wanted to say that for a long time. I guess it's easier with the distance that separates us now.

I think a lot about you. About all the things you ever said to me.

You told me I was good at this. Do you still believe it? I hope I am because I don't think I have a choice now. Not that I had it before, but at least you were there.

I'm sorry.

I want to say it a thousand times, but I don't think it will ever be enough.

Please, come to the coronation. Tyrion is here, he will help me, I expect. You said he was good. Do you still believe it?

Still, I wish you would come.

I'll protect you, I promise. Nothing will harm you here. Please, come.

_ iv. _

Sansa doesn't attend Jon's coronation. Too afraid of the ghosts she might find in King's Landing.

_ Too afraid of not being able to resist asking him to return with her. _

Instead, she instructs Brienne to keep Arya company. She knows her sister is more than capable of protecting herself, but a Stark alone up South is a thought that will not let her sleep.

She gives Arya a letter for Jon, one she trusts will not fall in anybody's hands but its real owner.

_ v. _

Believe it or not, talking about feelings is not a Stark characteristic. You might think I am good at talking, but, truthfully, I just say what people want to hear.

Please, remember that.

Even if it isn't the truth, even if it is against everything you believe and everything you will do, you must remember it. Knowledge is power. Conceal everything until the moment you cannot. I know father taught you differently, but now you are a King. You have to know that there will always be enemies wanting your crown.

Jon, I can feel your letter brooding from all the way up there. Stop it. I know you are a good man. Too good for this world.

You did the right thing, and perhaps it is time for King's Landing to have one of those. A man who is good at ruling, and just and brave. If it had been my decision, you would have been King of Westeros a long time ago. That is if I hadn't wanted to keep you here. With us.

You do not need to ask for forgiveness. Not anymore.

But I guess that is my line. Forgive my absence, but I am sure Arya will be enough for you to feel strong again.

And I am sure Tyrion will help you. He is quite smart. You two, and with Sam's help, will do amazing things for Westeros.

Please, write to me as much as you can.

Remember, you will always be a Stark, and Winterfell will always be your home.

_ vi. _

Sansa coronation happens soon after Jon's. She becomes a Queen in a world ruled by man, but she also had been a little girl between lions and survived. She knows how to play the game, so she builds walls around herself and follows the same advice she gave to Jon. The songs talk about their fair Queen in the North, who saved them after the long night. Who also had a heart made of ice. The more she listens to them, the more she likes them, as they become the highlight of the feasts held to celebrate the beginning of a new era.

However, with Jon and his letters, everything is different.

Writing comes easier for them. More so than talking.

Sansa knew it had been her mistake. When they found each other, Jon was the only family she had left. She was so open with him that she became desperate. She didn't know how to balance that side of her. They both didn't know how to be together without a dispute mingling in the air. The distance allows them to search for the right words. It helps to heal many things that were left unexplained.

Of course, she doesn't tell him  _ everything _ .

Her dreams, for instance, visions of him kissing her between her thighs, then up to her breasts, and finally her mouth before his cock thrusts inside her core and his teeth mark her like a wolf to its prey, those are her little secrets.

Just like the northerner's songs that talk about her beauty, her mother's inherited beauty: a queen kissed by fire who blooms in the winter and howls to the moon, and how they speak the truth, for she indeed was kissed by fire. She melts countless times in her bed, thinking about his arms and his bare chest. She feels the pain and the pleasure within her legs, imagining it is his fingers and tongue and flames, and she howls to the moon, begging for the world to stop just like her heart each time he makes her reach the depths of hell and then up to the skies.

No, those are tales only for herself.

(She doesn't tell him either how the nightmares of his father have and how they are replaced sometimes with images of Cersei wearing her face and telling her that  _ the little dove is not so perfect anymore, scheming to obtain a crown that didn't belong to her while lusting for her bastard brother _ .)

_ vii. _

"Tyrion wrote to me, talking about marriage."

Arya barks a laugh. "Has he lost his mind? You are a  _ queen _ . Besides, Jon would never allow him to marry you again--."

"Not him," Sansa interrupts. Her eyes never meet Arya's. "He wants me to marry Jon."

Silence dances between them. Ghost senses the discomfort and whines slightly, but her hand is quick to fall over his ears to reassure him. He nuzzles his nose into her skirts.

"I guess you both  _ are  _ cousins and not brother and sister."

Sansa scoffs.

"I would have to go South."

"And that's the only complaint?"

She hears her mother, teaching her how a lady should never swear. Not even when her sister is a sharp brat.

"Our family has had a fair share of incest, hasn't it?" She takes a lemon cake and nibs on it slowly. "Like Jonnel Stark, who married her niece--"

"Sansa Stark," Arya completes for her. "Yeah, I remember."

"A coincidence," she points out, referring to the names.

"But I meant the part about you having to bed Jon. Maybe, even love him. No issue there?"

Sansa looks at her. She thinks her sister already knows the answer but needs to be sure of it. Perhaps to use it against her? The thought is gone as fast as it comes because maybe Arya is only worried about her fears after Ramsay.

The memories rushing through her mind force her to rest a hand over her stomach to calm down the sick feeling that pools there.  _ Jon is nothing like Ramsay or Joffrey. Jon is good, and in her dreams, he only ever gives her pleasure. _

"I would do what duty demands," she replies.

Arya is quiet again, but not for long. "I told you before, didn't I? You don't have to be a martyr anymore."

"Says the one who hasn't accepted a marriage proposal from the man she is in love."

Her tone is sharp, but her sister looks unaffected.

Sansa knows she is simply very good at hiding her feelings. They both are. 

But they are also sisters, she has seen the thoughts that swirl inside her head day and night. About how she is spending her life between Storm's End and Winterfell, and how Gendry is adamant of having a bastard, how she wasn't born to be the lady of a house, and yet how much it hurts the thought of him marrying another woman.

"Well, it seems we are very similar after all."

Sansa gasps. It takes a minute or two to realize it was her who emitted that sound.

They don't speak anymore about Jon or Gendry. Just as they don't discuss Sansa's nightmares and the many times Arya has come to her room to sleep by her side when the screaming has reached her own chambers.

_ viii. _

She stands tall in her stallion, but he is larger over his dragon. Sansa doubts he can recognize himself―ignoring the fact that it is her the only one who hasn't seen him in a year or so―, clad in the Targaryen colors with a crown on his head, proud as she never saw him before, but it looks so good on him, she feels the effect on her toes.

He comes down from Drogon easily, already accustomed to it, and walks the distance between them. It is far too big for a king to do so, but this is no political encounter between the King of the Southern lands and the Queen in the North. Not when they are far away from Winterfell and any prying eyes.

Ghost doesn't contain his excitement, and before Jon can reach them both, he runs after him. He drops to his knees, arms wide open, and his forehead is against his direwolf as soon as they are close, murmuring words that Sansa can't decipher with the distance that still lingers. The sweet display leaves a bittersweet sensation in the pit of her stomach that she fears will only grow as the sun moves above them.

Jon's eyes raise to meet hers as he stands to his feet. He resumes his walking with a hand pressed to Ghost's nape, which doesn't change its position until he is right next to her, gesturing to help her get down her horse. Sansa lets him clasp his strong hands around her thin waist without thinking. They have never done anything like that.

Truthfully, it had been a long time since she let anyone touch her in any way, but as her hands fall from his shoulders to his forearms and then to his chest and she realizes there is no space between them, that thought becomes the least of her worries.

Sansa had been readying herself for a bath when one of her maids announced a dragon had landed close. She didn't think of anything but rushing to him, of seeing him, even if it meant her hair being loose as it is. She remembers this is nothing compared to how he has seen her before.

"My Queen," he says with a bow of his head.

His voice is gruff, more so than before. Sansa wonders if it is the lack of use or if she simply forgot the effect it could have on her.

She has to try and ignore the heat that ignites hearing him call her like that too. But that's no difficult task since it fades away as soon as she remembers the hurt in his expression the last time they saw each other, when she told him she would take his crown from him.

"You don't have to call me that," she bitterly smiles. "Do I have to call you King Jon?"

"No, please," he says quickly with agony. She tries to hide the relief that invades her because he is still so much like the Jon she remembers. "Is this all right?" Her brows furrow in confusion. He looks uncomfortable as he answers, "to be this close."

Her lips part to say that it is not, that she is frightened, that even now she feels each scar Ramsay left on her body. However, it isn't like that. Even when she doesn't want to, she trusts him.

"You don't scare me. You're nothing like the men from my nightmares."

But, why do you want to be this close, she aches to ask.

_ Fool _ .

Jon is not like her. He isn't wicked like her.

_ And yet. _

He stays silent, carefully searching for his next words, but Sansa doesn't seem to realize this. Her thoughts take her to the day they took Winterfell from the Bolton's, how he told her that they needed to trust each other before kissing her forehead. He had lingered more than it was needed.  _ More than it was proper _ . Not once did she felt afraid, not even when he withdrew, his eyes falling to her lips. Now it isn't any different.

His next words bring her back to this moment. "You haven't mentioned your nightmares in our letters. Arya wrote to me about it. She is worried."

Sansa wants to be mad for the trespassing of her privacy, but it is hard knowing her sister took the time to write a letter, something she doesn't do, not for Jon or Gendry, seeking help because she is  _ worried _ . That, without mentioning the many nights she must have lost sleep thanks to her. And now Jon was here. He had flown his dragon North, leaving his throne behind, because Arya told him she suffered from night terrors.

"They are not important."

"They are if they don't let you sleep. You seem tired."

Jon's eyes go small, inspecting every detail in her face. His right-hand presses against her cheek with the thumb gently brushing the corner of her eyes. Sansa can't stop herself when her lids fall, and she nuzzles against the rough palm.

"Sometimes I see father, other times I see Cersei. They are ghosts, and they shouldn't frighten me, but they do."

Jon doesn't know what to say. She can notice it with the expression of his face. But she smiles because it feels like it's enough just talking about it out loud and seeing him care.

"Do not worry too much, Jon. I'm sure you have enough excuses to brood about."

That makes him smile, and Sansa feels a deep desire to hug him. So she does. After all, he is still her brother, isn't he? The softness of her chest collides against his hardness, and he is not wearing any armor, so he must feel it as she does.

She tries to retreat, but his hands hold her in place as he buries his face against her neck. Sansa wants to cry from pain and pleasure.

"Let's go home."

_ ix. _

Jon spends long hours writing letters in the solar she prepared for him. It makes her wonder what many other things he does now that she never saw him do before.

When he is not locked away with a letter by Tyrion, he is following her. She suspects he simply wants to spend as much time as he can with Arya, who is always her shadow alongside Brienne, and even though the thought hurts, she relishes in his company.

They visit the lands she designated for the wilding's, and she listens to him and his advice regarding that subject. It's painfully evident he is a King now, but he also marvels at her and lets her know.

Yes, she is a Queen too.  _ The best the North could ever have _ , he says.

She wonders if he would think the same if she told him that, despite her fears and the desire to keep what she has accomplished, Sansa dreams of keeping the Stark line alive with black-haired boys who look like a Stark and a Targaryen, all at the same time.

She barely eats the night he announces he will leave when morning comes, thinking of Cersei and how unfortunate she is to resemble her―the woman who brought to this world the monster who killed her father, the daughter of the man who murdered her brother and mother, but still a Queen with more wit and intelligence that many men, and a heart made of rock, who loved to fuck her own brother.

_ x. _

A sound startles her awake. Sansa is sure of it, even with the fogginess of her dreams clouding her senses. She sits, careful of not making any sound, and clutches her needle under the furs, anticipating any sing of an intruder.

Not long within the silence that surrounds the night―and the thundering beating of her heart―, she sees shadows leaking under her door. She is up to her feet in an instant, ready to bolt the door when a knock shocks her midway.

"Sansa?"

She breathes her relief and opens without caring that she is only wearing her nightshift.

"Jon, what is it?"

She is frantic, expecting to hear they are under attack, but Jon's demeanor is solemn as he says, "you were screaming."

_ Ah _ .

"Forgive me. Did I wake you?"

He grimaces. "Doesn't matter. I haven't been able to sleep properly for a long time. Maybe since we left Winterfell all those years back."

Sansa looks at her feet. She wants to say something that might help him. Might help her too. But the words are stuck in her throat.

"If--," he takes a step closer. "If we were writing to each other, I'd confess that sleep is a luxury to me. My head spins all night wondering if I'm doing what is right. I don't want to fail, I guess. Not like I did when I was Lord Commander. I've learned the hard way that I'm not good at this."

Sansa takes another step, clasping one of his rough hands between hers. He is cold, even though he is fully clothed. "You are to me. Far better than anyone I've ever met. You did right, it's just that some were not ready to forgive."

She doesn't tell him that he could've been the greatest ruler the North ever had.

"I'm glad you came," she says out of nowhere. "I missed you."

_ If they were writing to each other _ , she wouldn't have dared to say that. Not because it was hard for her to be true with him, merely because she was scared of letting him see how wicked she was.

He gives her one of his shy smiles. "I'm glad too. I wanted to see you."

"Aye," she laughs. "I'm sure Arya was pretty convincing too. She didn't want to be the only one incapable of sleeping."

Sansa sees her father in him as his smile widens. Even under all those Targaryen traits that have bloomed in him, he looks like a Stark.

"You're right, but I didn't need that much convincing. I was melting in all that hot breeze."

"And I'm sure every opposing face gave you the perfect excuse since you were always so ready to not listen."

Her smile falters when he doesn't correspond. Sansa scolds herself, thinking for a brief second that he is remembering all those times they argued, restraining their relationship to the breaking point. But then it downs on her.

_ Nobody had opposed his decision to go North. _

She wants to close the door and hide. Instead, she straightens her back. It is the action that inspires respect when she is surrounded by her intricate dresses, but with her nightgown, it only serves to pull Jon's attention towards the curves of her body.

Sansa's lips part when his scrutiny only serves to make her feel heat pooling between her legs.

_ What a wicked little dove. _

"You came here because Tyrion told you?"

"No."

His response is fast, every muscle in his body and face hardening. She takes a step back, knowing that this is a conversation she didn't want to have with him. It will be hard to deny him if he says something about it.

_ It will hurt if he doesn't. _

"I came because you said this was my home too. Because I wanted to be here for you--to. To protect you."

"You can't protect me, Jon."

His expression is pained as he whispers. "Have you no faith in me?"

Gods, she's so tired of hurting him.

She still thinks about how she should've told him about the Nights of the Vale when he fought against Ramsay. She had wanted to, but it was so hard trying to silence the voices of those who taught her to be smarter―to recognize that knowledge was power. When they stood alone at the gates of Winterfell, she showed him how much she cared and how much it had hurt her to lie to him, even if only by a few words and an expression filled by regret. Why did she keep on doing it then?

"I do," she cries. Sansa extends her right arm, curling her fingers around the fabric that covers his chest. He isn't wearing something she made him. It hurts a little bit. "You know I do. I trust you, that's why I feel safer with you in that throne. You are one of us, Jon."

They say the Queen in the North shows no emotion, that she is made of ice. She taught herself to betray nothing in front of Baelish or the lords, but if Jon was near, she wasn't that smart. She never wanted him to leave her sight because she loved him so much she wanted to protect him. However, he never understood ―he still doesn't―, that is why he kept thinking she just thought herself so smart and that she wanted to undermine him.

The silence lasts longer than she expected and Sansa panics for a brief second.

_ It's so hard to let him go. _

"Would it be so terrible to marry me?"

Her lids fall. She is shaking and he notices. He comes a bit closer, trying to shield her from the wind that slips through the door. Sansa doesn't move.

"Are these your words or Tyrion's?"

Jon steps back and she feels the pain of his absence in her bones. Once again silence stretches between them and Sansa thinks she won't be able to breathe, but then he is close again and his arms lift, ready to take her in a tight embrace. She wants him to. Yet, he settles for holding her upper arms.

"You asked me once if I had bent the knee because I loved her. If we had been writing to each other then, I would have confessed that I did it because I loved  _ you _ . Because I wanted to protect  _ you _ , and the home that belongs to  _ you _ . And even better if I died there because if I was Ned Stark's son, I had no right feeling this warmth in my chest every time I had you close."

Jon winces when he realizes the strength he is using to hold onto her. To prevent her from running away. But, Sansa is so caught up in his words that she's unable to notice anything else.

"I wanted to believe in her because I didn't want you to live afraid of the South. Yes, I also thought of Arya and Bran, and everybody, but," he lets out a shaky breath. "Seven hells, Sansa--I'm not good at this because, just like you said, I let my needs as a man make me choose someone who wasn't good. She killed countless innocent lives, and I should have stopped her, but I was a fool who didn't want to listen. I just wanted to keep you safe."

His body bends, defeated by a truth he kept within his soul for so long. Sansa is there though, so she keeps him grounded.

"I need you--I need you, and I don't even know how to say it. I wish I could write it all down and tell you that I know that I can't make you accept me, but I want you to. I know I didn't do right and that you look at me as a brother. I know I am disgusting, but I still want you. I love you, I swear it for all the gods, the old and the new ones."

She thinks of her father, her mother, Cersei, Baelish.

And because she fears that if she speaks, she will lose him all over again, Sansa decides that kissing is better.

He fills her thoughts with his mouth against hers and everything else disappears.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this story a long time ago. Quarantine gave me the time to read it again and realize it had some major flaws.


End file.
